Chapter 2: Forced Electromechanical Pleasure
The night was a long, shallow scrape of consciousness. The plug was a constant presence, a dull fullness that made every shift on the mattress a conscious decision. The bra straps dug into his shoulders. The cage was a cold, tight knot of metal that made his attempts at sleep feel surreal and punctuated by sharp, humiliating awakenings. He’d stare at the ceiling, listen to the distant hum of the city, and feel the faint, ghostly pulse of the plug as if it were a second, alien heartbeat. The tablet on the desk glowed with a soft, sleep-mode light, a silent sentinel.
A sharp, melodic chime shattered the silence at exactly 6:00 AM. It came from the tablet. Logan jerked awake, his heart hammering. Before he could even sit up, the door unlocked and opened.
Davenport stood there, already immaculate in a charcoal grey suit, a cup of black coffee in one hand. He looked like he’d been awake for hours, his sharp features composed, his eyes alert and assessing. He surveyed Logan, a crumpled figure in the rumpled bed, with detached interest.
“Up. You have seven minutes to use the toilet. Then you will proceed to the bathroom for your morning regimen. The rules are explicit. Do not dally.”
Logan stumbled out of bed, the cool air hitting his skin. The plug shifted, a reminder that made him wince. He scurried to the bathroom, finding the toilet in a separate water closet. Relieving himself was a strange, messy affair around the cage, a lesson in humility. Seven minutes later, almost to the second, he emerged.
Davenport was waiting by the open bathroom door. “Strip to your skin. Leave the garments on the floor.”
Hands trembling, Logan unfastened the bra, slipped the panties down his legs. He stood naked except for the steel and silicone. He felt more exposed now than he had completely nude the night before.
“In the shower. Stand on the marked tile.”
The shower was a vast expanse of glass and white marble. A single, octagonal tile in the center of the space was a slightly different shade. Logan stepped onto it. The marble was shockingly cold under his feet.
Davenport stepped into the bathroom but didn’t undress. He leaned against the counter, watching. He picked up the tablet from where it had been placed on the vanity and swiped the screen awake. “You will wash using the products in the exact order I specify. You will not touch yourself for pleasure. You are here to be cleaned and prepared. Nothing more.”
He turned on the water with a touchless control. A rain shower head directly above Logan roared to life, the water hitting hot and heavy. Logan flinched, then let it course over him, sluicing away the sweat and fear of the night.
“The clear bottle. Shampoo. Lather and rinse thoroughly.”
Logan obeyed, his movements robotic. The shampoo smelled of mint and something medicinal. He rinsed, the suds trailing down his back.
“Conditioner. The white bottle. Leave it in for two minutes while you wash your body. Use the black loofah and the gel from the pump.”
Logan worked the gel into a lather. The loofah was rough against his skin. He scrubbed his arms, his chest, his stomach, avoiding his groin, avoiding the trailing suds that ran over the cage. He could feel Davenport’s gaze like a physical pressure.
“Time. Rinse the conditioner. Now, the body wash. The amber bottle. Every inch.”
The new gel was slick, smelling of sandalwood and ozone. Logan washed his legs, his feet. The water was starting to steam the glass.
“Now, the specified areas.” Davenport’s voice cut through the spray. “You will remove all body hair from the armpits, chest, groin, and legs. The razor and cream are on the shelf. Be meticulous. Any nicks are a failure.”
Logan’s stomach dropped. He took the shaving cream, a rich, unscented paste, and the heavy, expensive razor. He started under his arms, the motion awkward, the fear of cutting himself making his hands shake. He rinsed, saw the smooth, naked skin, a stark vulnerability. He moved to his chest and stomach, scraping away the dark hair, leaving his torso strangely boyish and exposed. Each stroke felt like an erasure.
“The pubic region. Around the device. Be precise.”
This was the worst. He had to lather around the cold metal cage, carefully maneuvering the blade over his scrotum, over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. The plug inside him felt huge, a taunt. He was hyper-aware of every slip of the razor, every twitch of his trapped cock. Finally, it was done. He stood hairless from the neck down, pink and raw in places, feeling utterly denuded.
“Rinse. Then stand on the mark again.”
Logan rinsed off the last of the cream and shaved hair, turning under the spray. He faced Davenport, water streaming down his face. The man was staring at the tablet, his thumb hovering.
“The final step of your cleansing is internal. A lesson in readiness and in accepting sensation without autonomy.” Davenport looked up, his blue eyes locking onto Logan’s. “You will come. Without hands. Without touch. You will come because I decide you will, and your body will learn to obey its programming.”
He tapped the screen.
Inside Logan, the plug whirred to life. But this wasn’t the low thrum from last night. This was a violent, immediate buzz, a deep, punishing vibration that seemed to radiate through his pelvis into his spine. He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound lost in the shower’s roar.
“Stay on the mark.”
The vibration intensified. The plug itself began to change shape, expanding slowly, thickening, stretching him even further open. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure-pain seared through him. His knees buckled. He threw a hand out against the wet tile wall to steady himself.
“Oh god… fuck…” he panted. His caged dick, utterly ignored, began to ache with a desperate, impossible pressure. It twitched pathetically in its steel tube, screaming for attention it would never get. All the sensation was focused internally, on that relentless, widening, vibrating intrusion.
Davenport watched, sipping his coffee. “Your body is mine to tune. This is a simple recalibration. Let it happen.”
Logon was beyond words. The orgasm built not from friction or fantasy, but from a brutal, targeted assault on his prostate. The expanding plug pressed against it with merciless precision, the vibration turning the pressure into a delirious, continuous shockwave. He was panting, whining, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. His hips started to move in tiny, helpless thrusts against empty air, seeking relief that wouldn’t come.
“Please…” he slurred, not even knowing what he was begging for—for it to stop or for it to tip him over the edge.
Davenport made another adjustment on the tablet.
The vibration pattern shifted, becoming a rapid, fluttering pulse. It was too much. The tension snapped.
Logan’s back arched, a strangled shout tearing from his throat. An orgasm ripped through him, dry and seismic, originating deep inside his ass. His locked-up cock jerked uselessly, searingly painful in its confinement, and a thin, clear strand of fluid leaked from the tip of the cage, mixing immediately with the shower water at his feet. He convulsed, held up only by the wall and the unbearable fullness inside him. The waves of pleasure were edged with a branding-iron heat of shame, compounded by the complete lack of physical release for his trapped erection. It was a brutal parody of climax, leaving him trembling and hollow.
Davenport let it continue for a few more seconds, watching Logan shake apart, then tapped the screen. The vibration ceased. The plug remained at its full, stretched size.
Logon slumped against the wall, spent and shuddering, breaths coming in ragged sobs. The water began to cool.
“Turn off the shower. Dry yourself with the black towel. Do not rub the shaved areas—pat them.”
Logan fumbled for the control, killed the water. The silence was sudden and heavy, broken only by his gasps and the drip of water. He took the towel, a thick, absorbent thing, and patted himself dry with numb movements. His skin was hypersensitive. The cage felt heavier. The plug was a colossal, undeniable occupancy.
Davenport placed a line of bottles on the counter. “Skincare. In order. Apply the toner, then the serum, then the moisturizer with SPF. Your skin is now part of the presentation. It will be kept flawless.”
Logan applied the products with trembling fingers, the cool liquids a stark contrast to the heat still thrumming under his skin. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror.
When he was done, Davenport pointed to a new set of lingerie laid over a stool. A different bra, this one with subtle padding. A matching thong. “Dress. Then you will join me in the dining room for breakfast and your daily briefing. You have five minutes.”
He left, taking his coffee and the tablet with him.
Logan pulled on the new underwear. The thong strap settled deep in the cleft of his ass, a constant line of pressure over the base of the plug. The bra fastened with the same practiced humiliation. He looked at himself in the mirror. A hairless, smooth-skinned man in expensive lingerie, his sex locked away, his body humming from an enforced, violating climax. The person he was twenty-four hours ago was gone, erased as thoroughly as the hair from his body.
He took a deep, shaky breath. The rules were on the desk. The day awaited. He walked to the door, turned the handle. It was unlocked. For now.
The hallway stretched before him, leading to whatever new instruction, new violation, lay in the dining room. His bare feet were silent on the floor. He walked, the plug a steady, stretching reminder with every step. The training had begun.
The dining room was a long, sunlit rectangle of minimalist elegance, all pale wood and white linen, with the same breathtaking, vertiginous view of the city. Davenport sat at the head of a table that could seat twelve, reading a financial tablet, perfectly at ease. A single place setting waited to Davenports right—a bone china plate, polished silver, a crystal water glass.
And a tall, clear pint glass, filled with a fluid that was unmistakably opaque and pearlescent in the morning light.
Logan halted just inside the doorway, his skin prickling. The sight of the glass sent a cold jolt through his stomach, cutting through the lingering haze from his shower. The food smelled incredible—scrambled eggs with chives, seared salmon, sautéed spinach, a small bowl of mixed berries—but all he could see was that viscous, off-white volume.
“Sit,” Davenport said without looking up. “Eat everything on the plate. You’ll need the energy. The glass is your supplement. You’ll drink it. All of it.”
Logan’s legs carried him to the chair. The cool linen of the seat pressed against the thin fabric of his thong, the plug shifting as he sat. He stared at the glass. Up close, he could see the subtle swirls in the liquid, tiny bubbles clinging to the inside. The portion was staggering.
“What… is it?” Logan asked, though he knew.
Davenport finally looked at him, a faint, icy smile touching his lips. “It’s semen, Logan. A daily serving. Your system will acclimate to the proteins. Your palate will learn to recognize its unique flavor profile. Eventually, you will crave it. Consider it a foundational part of your new nutrition.”
Bile rose in Logan’s throat. He clutched the edge of the table. “I can’t.”
“You signed. You can, and you will.” Davenport’s voice was conversational, but it left no room for debate. “Start with the food. Build your resolve. The clock is not my concern, but your comfort will decrease the longer it sits and warms.”
Logan picked up his fork. The eggs were fluffy, the salmon perfect, but each mouthful was like chewing ash. His eyes kept darting back to the glass. Halfway through the salmon, Davenport tapped his own tablet.
A familiar, low vibration started deep inside Logan’s body, the plug humming to life at a minimal setting. It wasn’t enough to push him, just enough to remind him—to connect this act of eating to the pervasive fullness in his ass.
“A focus aid,” Davenport remarked.
Logan shoved the last of the berries into his mouth, swallowing hard. He took a long gulp of water, trying to cleanse his palate. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached for the pint glass. It was cool, condensation slick on the surface.
He brought it to his lips. The smell was musky, deeply organic, a scent that bypassed thought and went straight to some primal part of his brain screaming contamination. He closed his eyes.
The first sip was a thick, slippery coat on his tongue. The taste was profoundly alien—salty, blandly sweet with a bitter, chemical undertone. His gorge rose violently. He forced his throat to work, swallowing convulsively. It felt like swallowing mucus, but warmer, heavier.
“Keep going. Small sips. Breathe through your nose.”
Logan took another sip, and another. Tears of sheer revulsion welled in his eyes. The vibration inside him seemed to synchronize with his swallowing, a horrible, rhythmic accompaniment. He gulped it down, the texture coating his throat. He thought of the contract, of his empty bank account, of the lock on his door. Survival was a bitter, salty taste.
When the glass was finally empty, he set it down with a clatter, gasping, his stomach churning. A few sticky strands clung to his lips. He felt defiled, gutted.
Davenport nodded, impassive. “It will become easier. The body accepts what the mind is forced to permit.” He stood, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Now, come here. Kneel between my legs.”
The command cut through Logan’s nausea. He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. He moved on unsteady legs, the plug a heavy anchor, the lingerie suddenly feeling absurd and flimsy. He lowered himself to the expensive rug, the wool rough against his shaved knees.
Davenport hadn’t even fully unzipped. He simply opened his trousers, freeing his cock. It was half-erect, thick and veined, a commanding presence. The reality of it, after the abstract horror of the glass, was shockingly direct.
“Open your mouth,” Davenport said, his hand guiding himself. “Use your tongue. Get it wet for me.”
Logan leaned forward, the humiliation a bright, burning coal in his chest. He extended his tongue, licking the broad head. The skin was soft, the taste clean, masculine. He lapped at the slit, tasting a clean, pre-seminal salt. A contradictory pulse of heat flared in his own caged cock, a traitorous flicker beneath the humiliation.
“Good. Now take it. All the way. I want to feel your throat.”
Logan parted his lips wider, taking the head inside. He breathed in through his nose, the scent of Davenport’s cologne and skin filling his senses. He pushed forward, letting the thick shaft slide over his tongue. His jaw ached immediately. He felt the head nudge the back of his throat and he gagged, pulling back, saliva dripping.
“Again. Relax your throat. You will learn to accept it.”
The second attempt was smoother. Logan focused on his breathing, on the mechanics. He surrendered to the pressure, letting the thick cock push past the constriction. A low, guttural sound escaped him as the head popped into his throat. It was an intense, choking fullness that mirrored the plug in his ass.
“There,” Davenport hissed, his fingers tangling in Logan’s dark hair. “Now fuck your face on it. Show me you want it.”
Something broke then. The pure, degrading instruction, the physical challenge, cut through the last of his mental resistance. A desperate, hungry part of him awoke. He began to move, bobbing his head, forcing his throat open repeatedly. Tears streamed from his eyes from the strain, but he sucked in air through his flared nostrils and drove himself down again.
The sounds were obscenely wet, loud gulps and choked whimpers. Logan’s hands came up, not to push away, but to grasp Davenport’s thighs, steadying himself as he worked. He hollowed his cheeks, applying suction, his tongue rubbing vigorously along the underside.
“Fuck, yes,” Davenport groaned, his cool composure cracking. His hips began to piston up, meeting Logan’s motions. “You greedy little thing. Look at you. Chasing it.”
Logan was. The initial shame was being burned away by a raw, physiological need to succeed, to please, to master this act. His own trapped dick was throbbing, leaking a constant, slick dribble into the cage. He gagged, saliva dripping in long strings, but he didn’t stop. He took the punishing rhythm, the stretch of his lips, the ache in his jaw, and converted it into a perverse purpose.
Davenport’s breathing grew ragged. His grip on Logan’s hair became vice-like. “You’re going to swallow every drop. You’re going to taste what you just drank, straight from the source.”
He thrust up hard, burying himself to the root, and held there. Logan felt the hot, urgent pulse directly down his throat. Thick, hot jets of cum flooded his esophagus, a richer, more potent version of what was in the glass. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working around the pulsing cock, gulping it down as it came. It was warm, slightly bitter, absolutely overwhelming.
When Davenport finally softened and slid out, Logan collapsed forward, coughing, strings of saliva and semen connecting his lips to the glistening, spent cock. He panted on the rug, his face flushed, his mind blank with a stunned, sated exhaustion.
Davenport tucked himself away, zipping up with a soft, definitive sound. He looked down at Logan, a genuine, appraising surprise in his cold eyes. He patted Logan’s damp head, the gesture almost affectionate.
“That was unexpectedly proficient,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Perhaps you’re more suited to this than you believed. Clean yourself up. Your morning appointments begin in twenty minutes.”
He walked out, leaving Logan kneeling in a pool of sunlight, the taste of the man cemented on his tongue, a dark, shocking hunger now woven into the fabric of his shame.